


Whumptober | Good Omens

by GlassRain



Series: Whumptober Drabbles [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Drabble Collection, Drug Abuse, Fever, Friendly Fire, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Manhandling, Temporarily Disabled, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2020-12-27 12:09:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21118571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlassRain/pseuds/GlassRain
Summary: Good Omens fills for various Whumptomber prompts -- 100 words per prompt.





	1. Kidnapped + Fever

Crowley’s best saunter gets him past the guards, and some fast talking gets him alone in the cell, but when he kneels at the side of the low stone plinth his cleverest plan involves shaking Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Angel, wake up! Please?”

Aziraphale groans. Not the theatrical groans he does when Crowley won’t appreciate a literary classic or a natty tweed, either. “No more,” he mumbles without opening his eyes.

He’s not visibly injured, not even roughed up, but he’s sleeping in a heap on a rock, so they must have done something. For no good reason (old habit learned when Warlock was feeling poorly, probably) Crowley puts a hand on his forehead.

. . . he is, not to put too fine a point on it, burning up.

Crowley’s never seen this limited application of hellfire (back in his day, you went for the full smiting or not at all), but he supposes it’s what you would do, if you wanted to torment an angel without leaving marks. “Come on, angel, it’s not one of them, it’s me. I’m here to _help_.”

“Y’_are_ one of'em,” slurs Aziraphale. And Crowley genuinely can’t tell whether he’s too feverish to know who he’s talking to.


	2. Manhandling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is funnier than the last one.
> 
> Snake Manhandling (snanhandling)

The snake form was supposed to be inconspicuous. It certainly wasn’t supposed to get Warlock determined to stuff it into an action-figure box.

Crowley thrashed, or at least wiggled in a particularly twisty manner, until the child’s grip (around the neck, clever little hellspawn) started cutting off his air. Not wanting to explain _that_ discorporation to Downstairs, he let Warlock cram him into the box, close the top, and grin gap-toothed at him through the plastic window on the front.

Oh, he and Aziraphale were going to have _words_ about these “you should make friends with all the animals!” lessons.


	3. Drugged

The boy at Anathema’s table looks so earnest and innocent that she almost didn’t figure out who he is. _What_ he is.

The instigator of the imminent apocalypse, getting crumbs all over her magazines.

She pours a splash of something extra into a mug, fills the rest with tea. Adam thanks her, barely looking up from secret ancient civilizations on the moon. Halfway through a question, he yawns. Halfway to the couch, he collapses and has to be dragged.

It won’t kill him, but it’ll keep him unconscious until she figures out what to do next.

However long that takes.


	4. Friendly fire + "I can't walk"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm using a loose interpretation of "walk" to include "fly."

“Good hea-- somewhere, angel, what happened? You look as if you picked a fight with a jet engine.”

Although in that case, Aziraphale would’ve miracled away the damage, wouldn’t he? Instead of sitting about his flat, wings out, one of them mangled as if the War was yesterday.

“If you must know,” sniffed Aziraphale, “I ran into Gabriel during a small wiling-on-your-behalf errand, and he took a shot before realizing I wasn’t one of you.”

Well, now Crowley felt awful about thinking the angel was just being lazier than usual by refusing to come to the Ritz. “So you really can’t move about, then? I hope Gabriel groveled over it.” Without planning to, he took a seat beside Aziraphale and started gently smoothing out what feathers remained. “Unless . . . you didn’t get in any _trouble_, did you?”

“No – I said it was an undercover operation. Infiltrating the humans I was ‘tempting’, you understand. He said of course, it made sense, and no hard feelings.” Aziraphale winced. “Not so rough there, dear boy.”

Crowley, who’d been as gentle as he knew how, stopped touching the wings at all. “How about I leave off, then, and go ask whether the Ritz does takeout.”


End file.
